


Upended

by angesradieux



Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, M/M, Religious Guilt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-10
Updated: 2021-03-16
Packaged: 2021-03-17 08:08:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,537
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29963424
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/angesradieux/pseuds/angesradieux
Summary: Floki is just an interesting person to talk to. It's nothing serious--at least, it isn't supposed to be. But a kiss calls all of that into question and leaves Athelstan floundering, struggling to decide what he wants and how to reconcile burgeoning feelings with his sense of self and his faith.
Relationships: Athelstan/Floki (Vikings)
Comments: 5
Kudos: 4





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> Author's Note: Okay, I'm having entirely more fun in this modern AU setting than I ever thought I would. I really like imagining how Athelstan might operate if he's been freed from some of the power dynamics built into the canon setting. This is part of the same modern AU as The Spirit of Giving and Leap of Faith. Hope you like it, and as always feedback is always appreciated!  
> ~Anges

“For the last time!  _ No _ !”

“Hey! You said no  _ slashers _ ! Technically, Saw isn’t a slasher.”

Athelstan settles back against the black, leather couch and folds his arms across his chest, letting out an annoyed huff. He musters the absolute best glare that he can, but Floki just smirks, apparently entirely unintimidated. “ _ Fine! _ No excessive gore.”

“Well, given the plot, I wouldn’t call it  _ excessive _ …”

“No!” Athelstan makes a half-hearted grab for the remote as Floki continues to cheerfully scroll through all the horror films Netflix has to offer. “Aren’t you supposed to be  _ nice _ to guests?”

“Hmm. Good thing I don’t put much stock in rules, then.”

“What about Mary Queen of Scots?”

Floki wrinkles his nose. “You study history, yes?” Athelstan gives a hum of affirmation—the wrong response, in this instance. “Then why would you want to watch movies about it in your free time?”

“Because it’s  _ interesting _ ,” he insists with a perfectly straight face, as if he fully expects that to sway his most ungracious host.

“Nerd.”

Athelstan shrugs, lips curling in a smirk. “Guilty.” When he stops glaring at Floki long enough to actually pay attention to the screen, he sits back up, eyes bright with interest. “Oh! Wait, go back!” Floki arches an eyebrow, but obliges, scrolling back until Athelstan tells him to stop.

“Dracula? Really?”

“I’ve heard good things! And this one is supposed to at least have  _ some _ historical basis.”

Floki rolls his eyes. “ _ Fine _ .” He sets the remote down on the coffee table and reaches for his pint glass. “Let me get another drink, first. I think I’ll need it.” In a moment of uncharacteristic thoughtfulness, he takes Athelstan’s glass, too. “Want another soda?”

“As long as you promise not to spike it.”

“Well, now that you gave me the idea…” Floki cackles as he heads into the kitchen and Athelstan tries his absolute hardest to look annoyed. Whatever sharpness there might be in his expression is softened by the way he tucks his feet up and settles back into the couch.

The quiet of Floki’s apartment is a nice change of pace from a bar, or even the coffee shops they frequently meet at. Athelstan isn’t entirely sure what he’d expected, but it’s nice. More spacious than Athelstan’s own apartment, and furniture that’s both in better condition and less mismatched. And Floki can talk about the handful of model ships on display with the same long-winded detail with which Athelstan can discuss church history.

Athelstan had never given much thought to the construction of boats, but the enthusiasm with which Floki had shown Athelstan his favorite, prominently displayed right on the coffee table, had been absolutely infectious. His eyes drift to the others, carefully arranged on shelves, and part of him itches to ask about all of them. Except he does need to go home eventually, and so he refrains, confident that Floki would happily talk away the entire night, and keep going well into the morning if given the chance.

If nothing else, it’s a reason to come back.

From the kitchen, he hears the sound of popcorn in the microwave. Floki returns, two glasses in hand. Aside from the frothy head of the beer, the contents look quite similar, differing in color by just a shade.

“I hope you remember which is which.”

Floki arches an eyebrow. “You’re perfectly safe,” he says as he sets the coke down on the table and slides it over to Athelstan. “I don’t share Dragon’s Milk.”

Athelstan picks up his glass and takes a sip. “Thanks.”

The beep of the microwave summons Floki back to the kitchen, and he returns in short order with a bowl of popcorn. Finally, he sits back down on the couch. “So, Dracula Untold? You’re  _ sure _ you wouldn’t rather watch Saw?”

“Positive.”

Athelstan reaches for the popcorn as Floki hits play, but his hand swipes at air as Floki jerks the bowl away with a laugh. “You thought this was for you? Nope!”

“Jerk.” The quiet scoff is devoid of any bite of anger or hostility, and even the disapproving glare Athelstan tries so hard to conjure is far too amused to be taken seriously.

“Guilty.”

Still, with a smirk Floki offers the bowl to Athelstan. The banter quiets as they settle in to watch the movie. Although the way Athelstan leans forward a little, resting a fist beneath his chin and the soft, skeptical, “Interesting,” leaves little doubt that the conversation will resume soon enough.

His eyes narrow just a little and he exhales a puff of breath.

“What?”

“Nothing.” Athelstan waves a hand dismissively, but the hum that follows says otherwise. “It’s just… Why bother to research if you’re not going to go below the absolute most surface level?”

Floki shrugs. “Because no one except you would know the difference?” Athelstan turns his whole body to face Floki, who pretends not to notice. Instead, he muses, “Seems fine to me. Except not nearly enough blood.”

He gives a huff, but turns his attention back to the screen. For the most part, he manages to quell his righteous indignation on behalf of the historians who must have absolutely despised working on this film, although as the first vampire makes his appearance Athelstan can’t quite bite back the hushed exclamation of, “Really?” He groans, so focused on everything wrong with the movie that he doesn’t seem to realize that Floki has spent more time watching him than the television screen.

With an amused smile, Floki returns to the kitchen for another beer.

It’s an almost herculean task, but Athelstan does his best to keep his grumbling to a minimum, although Floki’s encouragement makes it incredibly tempting. Still, he manages to  _ mostly _ hold it together until the credits roll. He sighs and slumps back, as if the effort of sitting through the movie has utterly exhausted him.

“Alright. Let’s hear it.”

“You’ll make fun of me!”

“Probably. But out with it, I know it’s  _ killing _ you.”

Athelstan rolls his eyes. “I mean. There’s  _ nothing _ ! Absolutely  _ nothing _ there that’s even  _ close _ to vampire folklore! And they  _ researched _ ! I know they did!” Floki’s eyes glitter as he just gives a hum, gesturing for Athelstan to continue. “I mean, come  _ on _ ! They cast Dracula’s brother!  _ No one does that _ . They obviously researched enough to know he  _ had _ a brother. And Mehmed the Conqueror! How many Dracula movies even  _ mention _ him? But even  _ that _ was… I mean, yeah. They  _ existed _ and Dracula fought them. But even  _ that _ was mostly wrong!”

“Mmm. So you’re a Dracula scholar now?”

“I at least know vampires! And—”

“But they aren’t even  _ real _ !”

“The  _ folklore _ is! It was a thing! You can read about alleged vampire sightings in Greece, from the seventeenth century. They took it seriously enough that word of it came back to France. It fueled arguments about theology!”

Floki doesn’t interrupt, and that’s all the encouragement Athelstan needs to continue his tirade.

“I mean,  _ seriously _ ! A Catholic priest observed it. And he was  _ convinced _ it meant that western Catholicism was the true faith, as opposed to Eastern Orthodox, because if vampires appeared in the east,  _ obviously _ it meant their souls were corrupt. Meanwhile, the Greek priest argued that the appearance of vampires was a good thing. Because the devil was trying to corrupt their souls, and if he wasn’t trying in the west, it meant  _ their  _ souls were already corrupt and the devil needn’t bother. It’s  _ fascinating _ !”

“So the church says vampires are real, does it?”

Athelstan’s brow knits and he shakes his head. “Well, it  _ did _ at one time. I mean, they were seeing  _ something _ , weren’t they? I’m sure now there’s a scientific explanation for it—I think it’s the stories from Serbia, there’s some speculation that what they saw was actually the effects of death from scurvy?—but it  _ meant _ something to people at the time. And when the source material is so  _ rich _ and interesting, why wouldn’t you  _ use it _ !”

His hands wave as he speaks, voice raising in volume as his frustration mounts, spurred on only by his own interest in the subject. Floki rests his chin on a hand, eyes glittering in amusement as he allows Athelstan to continue to dismantle an opposition that exists in the confines of his mind rather than anywhere in the room. Athelstan comes alive when he argues. If this is the result, then sitting through a lackluster movie was more than worth whatever minor suffering it caused.

“It’s a  _ crime _ !”

He hasn’t noticed that Floki’s come to sit just a little bit closer. It doesn’t register until suddenly lips brush against his, surprisingly gentle. He stiffens momentarily, but then finds himself relaxing into it. There’s a second, however brief, where he starts to return the kiss. Just a second, and then he stops, pulling away.

“Stop.”

“Hm?”

Floki obliges, watching him curiously.

“I can’t.”

“Of course you can,” Floki says. There’s an air of mischief about him as he adds, “And I’m an excellent teacher.” He leans in again, but Athelstan just about leaps off the couch.

“I have to go.”

He looks rather like a frightened rabbit as he rushes for the door.

He hears his name, but he neither stops nor looks back. Floki hasn’t chased him, and yet that doesn’t stop Athelstan from locking his car immediately once he’s settled in the driver’s seat. He runs a hand through his hair. “ _ Fuck, _ ” he breathes. For a long while, Athelstan just sits in the silence of his car, waiting for his heart to stop racing and allow him to calm down at least enough that he trusts himself to drive.

That night, Athelstan sleeps poorly, but he can't say whether it's the tender softness that shrouds his dreams or the burn of hellfire that fills his nightmares with brimstone that disturbs him more. 

It’s barely past six when he rises, giving up on a restful sleep. He rolls over and turns on the bedside lamp. He grabs the laptop from his nightstand, settling it on his lap. If he’s not going to sleep, maybe he can at least get some work done. However, no matter how hard he tries to gather himself enough to crank out a few pages for the next chapter of his dissertation, his thoughts remain scattered. It’s fine. It doesn’t need to be good right now, anyway--that’s what editing is for. At least, that’s what he tries to tell himself.

His fingertips remain still upon the keyboard as words refuse to come, chased away by the feeling of lips brushing against his own and the burning shame that comes from the realization that he may have put a stop to it, but he hadn’t  _ wanted _ to. 

Clearly, this is all an exercise in futility and soon the laptop, just like sleep, is abandoned. Instead, Athelstan gets up and gets himself dressed. He scarcely takes the time to run a brush through his hair before making his way to St. Joseph’s church.

The doors are open. Father Cuthbert likes it that way, providing a refuge in the early hours for those who need a moment of quiet contemplation before diving into the hustle of daily life. The sanctuary has its own distinctive scent, incense that lingers and the warmth of smoke from candles lit for loved ones lost that hangs itself about the shoulders of the faithful. In the past, it has always been a comfort, a familiarity that seemed to welcome Athelstan home, centering him and calling his mind to the task of worshipping the Divine. 

Today, it leaves Athelstan sick. The weight of God’s presence within the room makes him think only of what he stands to lose.

He hangs his head as he makes his way down the rows of pews, unable to bring himself to lift his eyes to the Cross that hangs in the front of the sanctuary. He sighs heavily as he makes the sign of the cross before sliding into the pew and gently lowers the kneeler. Hands clasped before him, Athelstan bows his head and searches for peace and clarity beneath the watchful eyes of the Lord. 

Adrift and lost, the world around him fades as Athelstan finds himself all too easily pulled into the turbulence of his thoughts. He just about jumps out of his skin as a hand lights on his shoulder. His head whips to the side and he sees the familiar, weathered face of Father Cuthbert. 

He holds up his hands and Athelstan thinks he sees some mild amusement in the curl of his lips. “I didn’t mean to startle you.” He eases himself down onto the pew beside Athelstan. Momentary humor gives way to concern as he remarks, “I’m not used to seeing you here so early.”

“Couldn’t sleep. I thought…” He stops himself, brow knitting in frustration. “I don’t know what I thought…” 

For now, Cuthbert doesn’t speak. He simply sits and waits.

“Will you take my confession?”

“If you’d like.”

By all accounts, Athelstan ought to be relieved to take the first step down the road to forgiveness. He’s never feared confession before, but today he feels a gnawing in the pit of his stomach that makes it more difficult than it has ever been to follow Cuthbert to the confessional rather than flee the church. 

Cuthbert moves to slide the grate between them aside. Eyes on the floor, Athelstan protests, “Wait! I…” Face dark with shame, he says softly, “Not this time. Please.” This, he hasn’t the courage to admit face to face.

Even through the screen, he thinks he catches the shadow of a frown on Cuthbert’s face. If nothing else, he hears apprehension in the murmured, “Of course,” as the barrier remains between them.

The closeness of the walls is claustrophobic in a way Athelstan has never before experienced. “Bless me father, for I have sinned. It’s been one month since my last confession.” The familiar opening at least comes easily, but the rest seems to stick in his throat. “I have a friend. It wasn’t anything. At least, it wasn’t supposed to be…” He sighs and licks his lips, trying to figure out what he’s trying to say. “We talk, and he has interesting things to say.” Harmless. It was supposed to be completely harmless.

He falls silent. Cuthbert gives him time, but eventually prods, “Talking isn’t a sin. God forgives, Athelstan, but the first step is to confess.”

The silence lingers for another moment. “He kissed me.” He closes his eyes and draws in a shuddering breath. “I stopped him. I… It was wrong, I know and--” He cuts himself off abruptly. He doesn’t want to continue, because if he does--if he speaks the words aloud--then it becomes  _ real _ . “I stopped it. But I…” He swallows thickly.

“But?”

“I didn’t want to,” he says softly. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

Cuthbert gives a thoughtful hum. “You were tempted, as have most been at one time or another. Temptation is part of the human condition and God will not fault you for it, but you must continue to resist. And when you do, God will rejoice with you in the strength of your spirit and the depth of your devotion to Him. Go from here in peace, Athelstan, with the knowledge that God loves all His children, and that He will sustain you through all trials. Pray the chaplet of divine mercy, and meditate on the sacrifice our Savior has made for all our sins and the nature of His forgiveness.”

Athelstan makes the sign of the cross and softly speaks the Act of Contrition. The words are familiar and rehearsed, and yet this time it feels different. “I firmly intend, with Your help, to do penance, to sin no more, and to avoid whatever leads me to sin.” He stumbles over the phrase, brow creasing. He closes his eyes and feels once again the phantom sensation of lips brushing against his own coupled with the pang of loss, but he shakes his head against it, stubbornly willing himself to finish his prayer.

Except, it is difficult. Athelstan prays with deliberate sincerity. Words have meaning and he has never been one to recite blindly, making promises or asking benediction without fully appreciating the weight of whatever it is he has lifted up to the Lord. Today is no different, and yet he wishes it were. 

“Give thanks to the Lord, for He is good.”

“His mercy endures forever,” Athelstan answers. However, he doesn’t leave the confessional. “But I haven’t… I’ve never felt like this before. What if I’m not strong enough?”

“Pray on it. Bring your burdens to the Lord, and He will help you carry them.”

The only indication Athelstan gives that the familiar platitude isn’t what he was hoping to hear is a quiet huff. As they exit the confessional, Cuthbert places a hand on Athelstan’s shoulder. “The door is always open. Come back as often as you need, and remember through God all things are possible.”

“Thank you, Father.” He manages a smile, but it’s strained and exhausted. Athelstan misses the levity he had come to associate with confession. Rather than remaining in the booth where they belong, this time his troubles managed to emerge along with him, claws too deeply embedded within his heart to be shaken off so easily. Before he leaves, he looks to the front of the church but finds he still can’t bring himself to gaze upon the cross.

Still, he tries to take Cuthbert’s words into consideration, and when he returns to his apartment, he removes his favorite rosary from its case. The beads are smooth and slide easily through his fingers. Fashioned from pressed rose petals, the heady scent of roses with an undertone of spice surrounds Athelstan as a protective shroud to banish unproductive thought as soon as he lifts the beads from their case. He kneels beside his bed, the old, worn carpeting providing little cushioning against the hard floors beneath.

He closes his eyes, but he doesn’t begin immediately. Athelstan draws in several deep, bracing breaths, letting the scent of the beads wash over him and trying to call his attention inward and away from distraction. God demands and deserves his full and undivided attention. The opening prayers are easy. The words come naturally and without hesitation, and even the first decade comes and goes uneventfully. But his penance is a marathon, not a sprint. The first set of ten concludes, and he reaches the bead for the Eternal Father.

“Eternal Father, I offer You the Body and Blood, Soul and Divinity, of Your Dearly Beloved Son, Our Lord, Jesus Christ, in atonement for our sins and those of the whole world.” He pauses there, to think on his own sin. It’s a different kind of sin. He hasn’t exchanged cross words with anyone or taken the Lord’s name in vain. It’s not anything he’s  _ done _ at all, but rather what he has  _ felt _ . It’s more intimate, and it seems a more direct affront to God than anything he’s experienced before and he still doesn’t know what to do with it.

He can repudiate an act--vow to show more patience and love, and forgive more quickly next time. But Athelstan can’t promise not to  _ feel _ again--at least, he doesn’t think he can. 

“Lord have mercy.”

The subsequent sets become slower, more anguished. Somewhere in the middle of the third, Athelstan feels the dampness of tears clinging to his eyelashes. Each repetition of, “For the sake of His sorrowful Passion, have mercy on us and on the whole world,” grows ever more difficult to voice. Never before has a prayer felt so utterly  _ exhausting _ . 

Athelstan was once a good Christian who happened to sin on occasion, as all people do. Sin was a thing. External, and expungeable with careful practice and a mindful approach to life. But now he  _ is sinful _ . It’s part of him, and he doesn’t know if he will ever be able to shake it. As he concludes his penance, there is no relief.

The sensation of his phone vibrating in his pocket drags him out of his thoughts. However, as soon as he glances at it and sees  _ P.I.T.A _ , he shoves it back into his pocket without reading the message. He ought to block the number--remove the temptation from his life. And yet his stomach twists into knots at the thought and he can’t bring himself to do it. 

It’s a failing that leaves him itching to confess anew. “God forgive me,” he breathes, clutching the cross of his rosary so tightly it hurts.


	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Athelstan turns to books to try to keep his mind from wandering where it ought not to

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note: Here's chapter two, and Athelstan discovers he's very, very good at denial. Poking at Holy Anorexia a little via Athelstan because I might have a little bit of my own axe to grind. ^^; But I don't think I was unjustifiably harsh! Anyway, as always feedback is deeply appreciated. I'd love to know what you think!  
> ~Anges

**P.I.T.A:** _ Was it really that bad? _

**P.I.T.A:** _ Hmm. I’ve asked around. Survey says I’m a perfectly good kisser _

**P.I.T.A:** _ Unless you're embarrassed by  _ your _ performance? _

**P.I.TA:** _ You’ll learn! And like I said, I’m an excellent teacher ;) _

It’d taken Athelstan the better part of the day to work up the courage to check his messages and when he did, he’d wished he hadn’t. He should just block the number--walk away and stop thinking about it. But he doesn’t have the resolve. Instead, he sets his phone to silent and drives to campus.

_ Days of Elijah _ blares through the sound system. He’d found no relief in penance, but perhaps the energetic beat of the music might spur him to an artificially better mood, at least as long as it continues to play. He sings along with exaggerated enthusiasm. Fake it ‘til you make it.

The drive to campus passes quickly, barely long enough to play through the song twice. Most days it feels like an utter waste of gas to drive when he could so easily walk. His strides are long and hurried as he makes his way to the library. 

The Divinity library is in the basement, as is Athelstan’s carrel. It’s nothing special, smaller than the average cubicle, with a small desk and a little shelf above it. Still, Athelstan had managed to reserve his early enough to claim one with a lock, and aside from an array of books on the shelf, he stocked it with some instant coffee packets and an assortment of tea bags. It’s small, but it’s quiet, and sequestered in the library he has all the reading material he could ask for--bar the handful of items he needs to request via an interlibrary loan--right at his fingertips.

On another day, he’d likely take up residence at the desk for awhile and work there. Today, he finds the closeness of the walls reminds him of the confessional and leaves him too anxious to focus. For now, he just sets his shoulderbag down on the desk and then wanders to get lost in the stacks.

Athelstan is more familiar with the offerings than he’d care to admit--he’s spent a remarkable amount of time walking up and down the rows of books. He makes a bee-line for a particular shelf, picking up a book whose title had made him pause many times over, but which wasn’t on any of his reading lists, and so he’d told himself he didn’t have time to read. For now, he shows no restraint as he grabs the book from the shelf, along with a whole host of others barely even tangentially related to the things he’s been studying.

He returns to his desk with a stack so ponderous he can barely carry it and then scans the titles neatly arranged on the shelf of his carrel. Five see themselves shoved into his bag, and then he gathers his newfound treasures to bring to the front desk. An arched eyebrow from the employee calls forth a somewhat sheepish smile, but he just shrugs his shoulders and produces his student ID.

“You want a bag for these?”

“That would be great, thanks.” 

Athelstan knows she’s judging him as she piles books into three plastic bags, but it’s something of a relief to be faced with judgement that doesn’t frighten him at all. Unabashed, he accepts the bags and steps back out into the cool, evening air. Usually, driving is a waste, but tonight he’s grateful that he needn’t carry his bounty any further than the parking lot.

He turns the volume of the music up even louder on the drive home.

Whereas his attempts at writing left room for his mind to wander and had proven quite unproductive, reading consumes Athelstan. He carefully curates a playlist of the most upbeat Christian rock he can find as background music, sets a pot of coffee to brew, and dives down the rabbit hole. The unanswered texts on his phone fade away in an over-caffeinated haze.

And if his thoughts begin to drift, the steady backdrop of praise music sets him back to work.

For the first time in a long time, Athelstan is actually  _ ahead _ . He’s finished grading early, well in advance of when another round of assignments is due to be dropped in his lap. He’s further along in his reading lists than he needs to be at this point,  _ and _ he’s managed to do some extra reading, too. True, he may not have  _ absorbed _ all of it. But he has pages upon pages of very careful notes to remind him of the most important information. 

An accumulation of sleepless, or mostly sleepless, nights has left dark rings beneath his eyes. But it’s fine, he’s not really  _ that _ tired, after all. And even if he’s ahead, there’s still work to be done if he wants to  _ stay _ ahead. Besides, it’s been three days and he’s barely even been tempted to check his text messages.

He’s mid-sentence in his notes on  _ Last Letters: Prisons and Prisoners of the French Revolution, 1793-1794  _ when the alarm on his phone sounds. Shit. What books is he supposed to have for his reading group? He’s read them--he knows he has. He skims over the spines of the stack of books on his desk, trying to remember which ones he needs for tonight. Athelstan narrows it down to five. He only needs three, but he shoves all five into his bag. They’re all related, anyway, and there’s nothing wrong with being a little over prepared. He fills a large thermos with coffee, grabs a tupperware of cookies off the counter, and heads out the door. 

This week, they’re meeting at Jordan’s apartment. It’s not quite as convenient as campus, but rotating hosting gives them more flexibility, sparing them the hassle of needing to reserve a room or, failing that, hoping they manage to find a quiet space that will accommodate them. 

On the way, he turns up the volume of the music.  _ You Are Loved _ blares at an unreasonable volume and Athelstan sings along with forced cheer. However, his brow knits and he stops briefly at the line  _ we all need a little honesty. _ It had never bothered him before. He huffs, and shakes his head. It doesn’t matter.

_ If your heart’s in a thousand pieces, if you’re lost and you’re far from reason/just look up, know you are loved...  _

Except, as his eyes momentarily drift upward, he finds he doesn’t feel the same warmth and peace he’s grown so accustomed to. It feels as though he’s looking to the Lord in askance rather than affirmation, which brings a grimace to his lips. He reaches for the volume again, turning it up until he can feel the vibrations of the bass. He  _ likes _ this song. He’s supposed to, anyway. He stubbornly continues to sing along, insistent on pretending that its meaning hasn’t changed at all. He succeeds to a point.

_ You don’t have to prove yourself/Don’t try to be someone else... _

It pulls a quiet scoff from him and a hint of bitterness nearly manages to breach the surface. He switches to the next track on the CD in search of something more neutral. The car swerves a little as the sudden heavy drumbeat of the next track makes him jump, his heart pounding as he turns the volume down to a more tolerable level, but the next track serves its purpose, generic Christian lyrics just worshipful enough to stop Athelstan’s mind from wandering anywhere it ought not to go. He sets it to repeat.

Perhaps it’s meditative, or maybe the steady beat and cycle of lyrics simply has a numbing effect. Whichever it is, Athelstan doesn’t care. What matters is that the rest of the drive passes without incident and he’s able to manage a convincing, if slightly tired, smile as he pulls into the parking lot.

Athelstan pushes open the door to find Felix has already arrived, and he and Jordan are both settled on the couch, a bottle of Felix’s favorite cabernet open on the table between two glasses. Jordan grins at the sight of the tupperware. “What’d you bring this time?”

“Chocolate snickerdoodles. Figured if Felix is bringing the wine, they’d pair well.” He gives a casual shrug. “Not that I’d know.”

“You’re the best!”

“You want anything? Water? Soda?” Jordan’s already heading into the kitchen, but Athelstan holds up his thermos of coffee.

“I’m good for now, thanks.”

Felix rolls his eyes. “Oh, come on! That’s just not fair!” He looks to Jordan and gestures to the bottle of wine on the table, whining, “He can talk circles around me  _ without _ the caffeine! And we’re already at a disadvantage.”

Athelstan is entirely unapologetic as he sits in an armchair and sets his tupperware down near the wine. “You could very easily switch to coffee, too,” he points out as he opens his laptop.

“And deprive you of the chance to dazzle us with your intellect? What kind of monster do you think I am?”

Athelstan lets out an amused huff as he pulls out his books.

Jordan frowns as he reclaims his spot on the couch. “I only read three this week.”

“Hm?” Athelstan grimaces a little. “Oh! Fell down a rabbit hole and I couldn’t remember which books we all decided on. I narrowed it down to five and figured it wouldn’t hurt to have a few extras.”

“Since when do  _ you _ forget? You’re usually the one keeping us on track,” Jordan says. He picks up the book on top of the pile-- _ Sacred Text, Sacred Space: Architectural, Spiritual, and Literary Convergences in England and Wales _ and flips open the cover, scanning the table of contents. “Is this any good?”

Well, that at least narrows it down to four. “I thought it was interesting, but you know I like interdisciplinary things. It’s a little too expansive for my taste, at least in terms of the time periods it covers, though. I mean, it’s really well done, I just prefer slightly more targeted reading.”

“Mind if I borrow it?”

“Sure. Just make sure it gets returned on time. If it’s late, I’m not paying the fine.”

“Alright. So,” Felix cuts in. “The good, the bad, or the ugly? What’re we gonna start with? Anyone have a particular axe to grind?” He looks to Athelstan expectantly. 

“I don’t  _ always _ have an axe to grind!”

“Alright, fine. So we’ll just have a nice chat about how these are the pinnacle of scholarly research, then?”

Athelstan huffs.

“Insightful arguments, elegant writing?”

“Innovative use of sources? Groundbreaking addition to the literature,” Jordan piles on.

“Well, I didn’t say  _ that _ .”

“There it is! Let’s hear it.”

Athelstan’s eyes narrow and his lips thin in annoyance. “I mean, they’re  _ fine _ ,” he says a bit more waspishly than he intended. He spreads the books out across the table in an effort to keep his mind from wandering to someone else saying something remarkably similar. “Bonnie Gordon goes down a few unnecessary detours,” he begins.”And then this one,” he taps the cover of the next book, “mostly makes good arguments, but I’m not sure I agree with his assessment of the historiography. Yeah, he makes some good points. But it’s not like it’s never been done before, as he seems to claim. And  _ Holy Anorexia _ relies more on broad theoretical concepts without  _ really _ balancing that in any meaningful way. But whatever. They’re fine.” He sits back in the chair, folding his arms across his chest.

Neither Felix nor Jordan say anything just yet. He draws in a breath, almost stops himself, but then continues.

“Hasn’t  _ Holy Anorexia _ become controversial lately, anyway? I’m not even sure why it’s on our list. I’m pretty sure his analysis has been contested by at least a handful of more recent historians. But whatever. It’s not completely useless--there’s some interesting stuff there, at least. It’s fine.”

“Alright,” Felix grins, “now that that’s out of the way…” He pushes the tupperware of cookies across the table. Athelstan takes one, but he doesn’t appear any less disgruntled for it. He waits, scrolling through his notes and adding here and there as Felix and Jordan offer up their own assessment of the reading. His own commentary features the most swipes at the historians in question--perhaps even more so than usual.

Athelstan is often critical when he reads, but he isn’t unfair. Whereas he’s usually just as quick to point out what was done well as those things that seem to raise some questions, tonight he focuses much more on the latter. And yet, despite his obvious agitation, he maintains the steady mantra of, “They’re  _ fine _ .” 

Rarely has the word fine ever sounded so insulting.

They all laugh it off, for the most part. It’s natural to be fed-up from time to time, after all. And besides, Athelstan’s criticisms aren’t  _ wrong _ and are, in fact, helpful in illuminating gaps in the literature that remain to be filled, laying the groundwork for charting the path of the historiography. 

The conversation remains lively as Felix and Jordan indulge in their wine while Athelstan sips his coffee. He hopes the caffeine will keep him focused, but every once in awhile he can’t help but think of a similarly energetic discourse on the construction of boats. It’s in those moments where he feels particularly driven to sharpen the knives and pick at another flaw. It’s not the generous thing to do, but it helps, and it isn’t as though any of the authors are in the room to take offense. So, really, it’s harmless, even if it isn’t necessarily kind. 

However, the inevitable happens and the conversation begins to drift. They’ve arrived at the point where they’ve said what they could about the week’s readings and they’re ready to move on. At least, Felix and Jordan are.

“Fun plans for the weekend?”

Jordan snorts. “Yeah. Sleeping.” He closes his laptop and pushes it aside. “I’m gonna take a whole day off, and it’s going to be  _ glorious _ . What about you?”

“Wish I could, but I’m still so far behind! I think I need to just camp out in the library and not let myself leave until I get through at least one full section of my reading list. Or at least get ahead in a couple classes so I can focus on my list later.” He runs a hand through his hair and lets out a quiet huff. “Why are we doing this again?”

“Because we’re all masochists.” Jordan gestures to the stack of books Athelstan’s trying to cram into his bag--it doesn’t make sense. Everything fit before, and he’s leaving with one less book. But somehow, they just don’t want to fit. “What about you? Looks like you’ve made some decent headway. Doing anything fun with all that time you have on your hands?”

“Just church. And then more reading. Try to work on some papers--maybe I’ll join Felix in the library. May as well try to  _ stay _ ahead for a bit, right?”

“Nerd,” Felix prods.

“And you aren’t?” There’s an uncharacteristic sharpness to his tone. 

“Not really much of an insult here, is it,” Jordan muses. 

Athelstan exhales audibly, but agrees, “Yeah. Guess not.” Still, once his books and laptop are all situated, he grabs his bag and says, “I’m gonna go. I have some stuff I want to get done. But this was fun--same time next week?”

“Everything alright?”

“Hm? Yeah, just busy.”

“You said you were ahead,” Jordan presses, brow creasing. 

“And I also said I’m trying to keep it that way.” Athelstan makes a point of smiling as he shrugs his shoulders, relieving some of the tension that had been working its way down his spine. “I’m fine.”

“Like the books were  _ fine _ ,” Felix prods.

“No.  _ Actually _ fine. Look, I’ll see you in class, alright?” 

“Do you want your cookies?” By the time Jordan offers them up, Athelstan’s already heading for the door.

“Keep them. Just bring the tupperware to class, otherwise I won’t have anything to carry snacks in next week.”

“Take care of yourself,” Felix calls after him. “Don’t burn yourself out, yeah?”

“I’m fine,” Athelstan insists, leaving before anyone can question him further. In the car, his resolve falters for the first time in days. 

**P.I.T.A:** _ Are you okay? _

His brow furrows. He shouldn’t answer, lest he fall into temptation. He needs to just move on with his life.

**Athelstan:** _ I’m busy _ .

There. An answer, but a harmless one. Maybe it’ll be enough to stop Floki from continuing to text, at least for a little while. He turns his car on, finding it harder than he cares to admit to pull out of the driveway and ignore his phone when he hears it buzz.

_ The joy of the Lord, it will be my strength/When the pressure is on, He’s making diamonds _

Athelstan sings along to the steady backdrop of Christian rock, repeating it like a mantra. He’s abiding by God’s will, living within His love. That’s enough. It has to be. God will rejoice that he’s managed to turn from sin, and in that Athelstan will find his own joy as well. He’s happy. 

He has to be.

But why, then, do the song’s lyrics ring so hollow? It doesn’t matter. It’s  _ true _ , he tells himself. The drive back to his apartment seems to last an eternity and despite his most stubborn insistence that he doesn’t care, his eyes continue to drift to the phone in his cupholder. 

When he finally returns home, he nearly throws it across the parking lot.

**P.I.T.A:** _ That’s not what I asked. _

He can’t do this.

It’s shaping up to be another sleepless night as he shuts his phone off and reaches for the first book he can grab from one of the various piles scattered about the apartment. “It’s fine,” he breathes as he sits on his own couch with his laptop and opens his playlist of praise music. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Athelstan knows he’s processing little, if anything, as he plunges into yet another book. He’s not learning anything, and in fact it serves little purpose beyond giving him something to look at that isn’t his cellphone. But maybe for now that much is enough.

It’s fine. He can do this. It’s. Fine. 


End file.
